


derive

by relationshipcrimes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Asexual Wash, M/M, Mentions of Past Dubious Consent, Mild d/s undertone, Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: Asexual people sometimes wake up in a Mood for morning sex, too.





	derive

**Author's Note:**

> hey so shannon mccormick mentioned a million years ago that he HC’d wash as ace (if i’m recalling that correctly, don’t quote me i might be imagining it??), and basically i, an ace person, never let go of the HC so happy pride month to all yall aces out there, enjoy being valid as fuck a la porn with rvb’s hottest fandom bicycle

Some few weeks after Wash convinces Locus to crawl into bed with him, like courting an excessively skittish alley cat, Wash wakes up in Locus’s arms, well-rested from the inside out in a way that never happens when he’s sleeping alone. He sighs and shifts over, seeking as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, and finds that today on this fine morning, Locus is hard.

He’s also already awake, being an even earlier riser than Wash, but pretending he isn’t. Wash closes his eyes, presses himself against Locus’s chest, soaking in the feel and smell of bare skin. Slowly, gently, Locus’s hands travel up Wash’s back, holding him close, almost reverent. (Locus always does that—treating Wash like he’s made of glass. Most of the time, Wash finds it hilarious.)

“Hey,” Wash mumbles. Locus makes a soft noise in response, which turns into a soft noise against Wash’s mouth, morning breath and all. Wash shifts closer, which makes Locus’s hard-on and Wash’s clear lack of one rather more apparent, and Locus pulls away from the kiss.

“It’ll go away,” says Locus.  _ It’ll go away _ has been the usual response to Locus’s morning wood—either that, or Locus sneaks off to the bathroom and comes back less tense that he was before.

The nice thing about Locus treating Wash like he’s made of glass is that when Wash said he was neutral to sex at best and interested in having it every other blue moon, Locus turned into a Victorian prude who suddenly wouldn’t put his hands on Wash’s hips until he received a signed and sealed Jane Austen invitation to even approach the belt level, let alone below it. Which is a little ridiculous, but then again, it’s not the most ridiculous thing Locus has ever done. (When Grif congratulated him on finally having his “big dweeb crush on Wash returned,” Locus nearly tackled Grif off his chair.)

Wash likes being able to say no without (much) guilt. It gets easier every time Wash does it and Locus never pushes. 

On the other hand, Wash hasn’t forgotten that thing they did with the vibrator, and this whole thing with a vaguely-lazy morning after both of them actually getting enough sleep? The feel of sleep-warm skin, Locus’s deep, slow breaths? That’s a particular flavor Wash could go for.

“I’ve got a better idea,” says Wash, and tilts himself around so Locus’s hard-on drags against his thigh, and they’re so close that Wash can feel Locus’s breath stutter in his chest. 

“Are you sure?” Locus asks.

“I’m not going to die if I touch a dick, Locus.” And to punctuate the point, Wash fingers the waistband of Locus’s sleep boxers. “Unless you don’t want to.”

From the heated look on Locus’s face, Locus is  _ far _ from not wanting to. Wash smiles, close-lipped. “I can be in the mood to get you off,” Wash reminds him. They’ve had this conversation before. 

Locus nods, and Wash’s fingers pull the waistband down, working Locus’s morning wood to a full hardness. He takes his time about it, soaking in the slow morning atmosphere. It’s a good morning to be lazy. 

“Are you sure I shouldn’t reciprocate?” Locus says. He sounds vaguely out of breath already.

“Kiss the hell out of me afterwards,” says Wash. He’s looking forward to tasting Locus’s post-orgasm delirium for himself. 

“I can do that now,” says Locus, which is a true fact and fair point, so Wash pushes Locus on his back, leans over and kisses him, long and deep, until Locus makes a little throaty noise, the sort that Wash wants to wrap up and carry around with him all day long.

He presses little kisses along Locus’s face, his neck, his trembling stomach, letting him know how wonderful he sounds, stroking his cock and laving his tongue over Locus’s nipples with just a hint of teeth until Locus clutches at his shoulders.

Yes, this was an excellent idea, very good going, Wash. He’s always partial to watching Locus fall apart. He looks up at Locus, who is in turn watching Wash suck hickeys into his skin with lidded eyes. 

“Hey,” Wash says. “It’s  _ really _ early in the morning, but I’m thinking about getting the lube.”

Locus looks at Wash like he’s has given him an impossible gift, and Wash tries to not feel guilty about all the sex that Locus could be having but isn’t because Locus apparently doesn’t  _ want _ to sleep with anyone else, and in fact Locus got all bent out of shape when Wash said he understood if Locus wanted to sleep with other people (specifically Grif, if Wash is being honest). Whatever. Wash in the practice of telling himself to stop getting hung up about the kinds of things he can’t change. Wash fishes the (somewhat dusty) lube out from the bottom of his bedside storage box and hands it to Locus. 

“Think you can finger yourself while I blow you?”

“It’d be an angle,” Locus replies. “Wouldn’t it be easier to—”

Which is around the time that Wash pulls out the ziploc bag with the vibrator, and Locus sees where he’s going with this. The steady hum of a vibrator is exactly the sort of long, drawn-out teasing Wash is feeling on this particular morning. “Ah,” says Locus, and uncaps the lube.

“Be thorough,” Wash murmurs. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” And then he settles down between Locus’s legs and mouths back over his cock.

It is, weirdly, Wash’s preference to blow someone while they’re also getting fingered, either by himself or someone else or themselves, because he can  _ feel _ how Locus begins to lose it, he can taste pre-cum as he sucks, how Locus grows even harder and begins to pant and his legs strain around Wash’s ears, the gentle rock as Locus loses himself in working himself open and trying to find that perfect spot. Wash lets him start to fuck into his mouth, relishes it on his tongue, until he remembers what Locus said once about being held down and pins Locus’s hips flat.

He pulls off and looks up. Locus bucks at the loss of contact, but Wash only pushes him back down. Sharp, short breaths punch out of Locus’s chest.

“How you doing,” Wash asks.

“Ffffffine,” says Locus. He sounds like he can’t decide if he’s frustrated or pleading.

Wash actually starts laughing into Locus’s thigh at that, because for one, Locus is obviously not fine, he’s rock hard and panting; and for two,  _ fine _ is not a common word used to describe receiving a blowjob unless it’s absolutely fucking terrible. “Wait,” says Locus, realizing his mistake. “I meant, um…”

“I know what you meant,” says Wash, still snickering. 

He hikes up one of Locus’s legs, gets some lube on his own fingers, and presses his fingers in to see for himself. Two fingers, three easily go in, and he spends some time stroking long and deep, feeling the walls, finding the spot that make Locus’s eyes flutter closed (right where he remembers it). Wash presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Considers just languorously fingering Locus all morning and listening to the hitch of Locus’s breaths. “Seems pretty thoroughly stretched,” says Wash. “Good. That’s good of you.”

Locus swallows and bites his lip. Wash tries to not look too pleased with himself. Locus is never a loud one in the best of times, which is such a shame, but he’s so readable if you know what to look for. 

They get the vibrator out of the bag, turn it on, test it against Wash’s palm first to make sure it hasn’t spontaneously gotten stronger since they last used it. It’s not large, so Wash isn’t very worried about the size; their larger vibrator would require more prep than Wash’s limited interest can handle. Nevertheless, Wash takes his time about it, pushing it slowly into Locus, letting him feel every inch. If Locus wants Wash to hurry up, he can say so, but Locus never does. 

“Alright?” says Wash.

Locus nods. There’s pre-cum dripping onto his stomach. “Good,” says Wash approvingly, and watches Locus squirm.

Wash slides the vibrator on to the lowest setting and hears the smallest inhale from Locus. Wash adjusts the angle. Feels Locus’s thighs squeeze around him. On the right track, then. He rocks the vibrator, gentle thrusts, leaning down to lap at his cock, small kisses until Locus grunts with desperation. 

Locus likes it harder than this but never says so, never asks for much of anything, only mentions in passing things like  _ it’s okay to hold me down _ or  _ you can tell me what to do if you’d like, _ which always reminds Wash to ask Locus about what  _ exactly _ Locus had meant when he’d requested Wash remove the knife he kept in the bedside drawer, with only the explanation that  _ Felix and I were complicated. _ (Wash had kept the knife there out of paranoia, nothing else—definitely not doing whatever the fuck Felix used knives for.) They’ve really, actually, seriously have got to have a talk about this, Wash reminds himself, even if Locus thinks they don’t have to, because they’ve been flirting a line for a while and they’ve absolutely got to talk about it before they go any further than Wash’s best guesstimate of what’s still within the realm of vanilla.  

—Wash will do it later. After this. “Hands above your head. Hold the headboard. Don’t move them,” Wash says, and Locus complies immediately, some expression of both relief and want flashing across his face. “You can let go if you have to,” Wash adds, “but also… not if you don’t have to.”

Locus nods, quick and obedient. 

“Good,” Wash murmurs—again, that flash of relief and want from Locus.

Then Wash turns the vibration up, pulls his cock back into his mouth, sucks with everything he’s got. Locus jolts and clings to the headboard; he tosses his head back and forth and pants and still doesn’t let go. Wash pulls away. 

“Don’t move. Stay still,” he commands. Locus nods, a little frantically, and Wash squeezes his grip around Locus’s hips. Then he tilts the vibrator right up against the spot that he knows drives Locus up the wall, watches Locus’s entire body shake. “Stay still,” Wash says again, dragging the vibrator back and forth, back and forth; Locus’s mouth tilts open and his breaths turn ragged, but he stays still. 

True to his lazy-morning-fuck plan, Wash takes his time, teasing Locus in turns, licking the pre-cum away and stroking the head of his cock, pressing kisses to his stomach and legs, to the extent that Wash is nearly surprised himself that Locus hasn’t just lost it and asked Wash to fuck him hard. Frankly, Wash wonders how long he could draw this out, which could snap first: Locus’s insistence on never asking for anything during sex, or Wash’s eventual boredom. 

He slides his mouth back over Locus’s cock in earnest again, presses his tongue under the head, angles the vibrator up and lets it buzz right up against where he knows Locus likes. Sucks hard, deep, makes a little moan around Locus’s cock.

“Oh,” Locus gasps, and Wash knows he’s got him. “Coming,” Locus says, which is sweet of him but Wash really doesn’t care a whole lot about the taste and Locus should know that, so Wash just goes down as far as he can, almost to the root, and barely tastes anything except the feel of something bitter and hot before he swallows, pulls off, strokes Locus through the rest of it, wipes the last bit of cum away on Locus’s abs. (It’s just cleaner if Wash swallows and there’s no wet spot on the bedsheets, honestly. Also, Wash gets to touch Locus’s abs.)

Before Wash can do anything, Locus drags Wash forward and kisses him deep as promised, like he’s been waiting this whole time just to be able to do this one thing he knows Wash likes, and oh, does Wash like it. Wash melts to feel Locus’s trembling and tension fall away, knowing he did that, that’s Locus that he’s got wrecked and debauched and covered in  _ his _ marks because of  _ his  _ handiwork in  _ his _ bed, soaking up Locus’s warm, loose-limbed compliance like sunlight. Locus smells like half-asleep sex and sweat. 

Carefully, Wash maneuvers them so he’s back underneath Locus, like Locus is a large, extremely heavy blanket, and tucks his face into Locus’s shoulder. “Oh, that’s nice,” he sighs.

“...Thank you,” says Locus, eventually. Locus never seems to get it into his head that he’s doing  _ Wash _ a favor by  _ not _ touching his dick. 

Wash snorts. “I did want to. It’s nice,” he says again. “And now I’m going to lounge around in bed and waste another hour.”

Locus frowns. “It’s almost six.”

“Most human beings don’t get up at six.”

“We do.”

Yes, because neither of them really broke that habit of early morning trainings for a military neither of them are in anymore. “You can go if you  _ really _ want to,” Wash says, without removing his face from Locus’s shoulder. “But I’m pretty sure nobody is going to notice if we don’t get up at our freakishly early hour one day out of the week.”

“Hm,” says Locus, and breathes out. 

Locus’s arm curls around Wash. Neither of them get up.

  
  



End file.
